


11:23PM

by ValarMorghulis508



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4204917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValarMorghulis508/pseuds/ValarMorghulis508
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John head home after a long and hard case for some well deserved rest. - Three Garridebs fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	11:23PM

Another case closed. Another criminal apprehended. Sherlock and John could finally return to the warmth and comfort of 221b Baker Street. The fiasco with the three Garridebs had been utterly exhausting for the pair of them, both physically and mentally. John hadn't seen Sherlock struggle so much with a case before. The detective seemed to enjoy the mental exercise but his doctor knew it had almost had the better of him. He hadn't slept in days and hadn't eaten in just as long. Finally, they were safe. It was time to get his detective home and care for him back to full health.

They walked between the cold streets of London, knowing they were only a few blocks from home. A deep fog had set through the buildings and swam between alleys, out to the streets and over lamp posts that now shone in a blurred haze. Their breath danced in front of them as they laughed, recounting the stress and danger of the last few days. Sherlock looked to his doctor and knew then that he could die a happy man, knowing that John was laughing because of him. That fantastic laugh and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Sherlock took a snapshot and stored it in John's wing every time he managed to make John laugh. John was the perfect specimen and he left a warm glow inside of Sherlock that he had never had before.

The white noise of the streets were silenced. The chatter of diners seated in corner restaurants, the engines of cars passing the road ahead of them at the end of the alleyway and the dim blaring of the commonplace sirens in the distance all faded into nothing. They were ripped out of their place, torn and drowned out by the sound of a single gunshot ahead of them. Sherlock's ears perked and turned from John to find a man aiming directly at him. After a swift analysis, Sherlock determined him to be of no interest or concern, he had never met the man before and read signs of a decline in health and financial status. A mugging then. He maneuvered to the side behind a dumpster and withdrew his weapon.

The detective made a quick scan to learn the whereabouts of his soldier, who, without a doubt, would have reacted similarly to himself, only better, given his military history. But where was he? He wasn't in the only other possible form of cover across the way. He looked back to where they were standing and he was still there. Standing with a stupid expression on his face and looking towards the ground. He turned back. No time. Sherlock peered from the side of the dumpster before moving back into the alleyway. The man was now running towards them with a great speed before Sherlock smoothly raised the gun and fired, bringing the assailant down immediately. He stayed for a moment longer to ensure he had no partners lurking in the shadows before turning to scold John. Honestly, he knew better than standing in the line of fire.

Sherlock walked towards his doctor to find he hadn't moved. Still stood in the middle of the darkened alley with his hands across his stomach and still, that dazed and confused expression across his features. How quickly had that assault occurred? Surely it had all occurred in a matter of seconds. _Post traumatic stress perhaps?_ His eyes _were_ somewhat glazed and .. No..

A small trickle of crimson fell from the base of John's hands and stained his oatmeal jumper. John's eyes slowly came up to meet his detectives and his lips parted gently.

"Sherlock.."

He dropped to his knees, his arms now dangling uselessly at his side. Sherlock dove forward to catch him before he fell forward to the hard cobblestone below.

"John!"

He hung limp and heavy in the detective's arms. Sherlock fumbled at the fabric now damp with blood. It was just a tiny hole. Barely a centimetre. How could something so small and insignificant even dare threaten to take John, _his_ John, away from him. Sherlock lay him down and knelt by his abdomen, helplessly staring as the red ran and covered more and more of his doctors skin and clothing.

"Sherlock, come on now, you know this." Sherlock looked up and over his shoulder to see another John, dressed identically and staring down to his detective. "Come on. Sherlock."

Sherlocks eyes began to sting and his vision blurred. His voice began to quiver,

"John, I .. I don't know what to do." He traced his hands shakily over the wound and the fabric and time had sped back up. His best friend was dying and he couldn't do anything about it.

His voice was still and calm, as it had been when they had first met and Sherlock had asked him to study the woman in pink. "Yes. Yes you do and you can. Look closely. That bullet is still in me. That's good. Just put pressure on the wound. You need to stop the bleeding."

Sherlock lost his words. He looked again at that black hole in his gut and felt one grow in his own. His breath betrayed him and a sob broke out from his throat. His fingers grabbed feebly at his scarf and pulled it loose, feeling the fabric come undone and slide past the black curls at the base of his neck. He looked down and saw someone else's hands in place of his own shakily ball the material and hold it to his doctors wound.

Sherlock looked up to the unconscious John's face and pressed harder, as though the amount of pressure would match equally with the amount of recovery that should be visible but was met with nothing. Just silence. Sherlock's sobs grew heavier and deeper.

"I can't do this, John, I can't.. Its my fault. John, please! John, wake up!"

Sherlock heard his doctor from over his shoulder.

"You're doing good, Sherlock. Really good. You just need to keep calm. You can do this, Sherlock."

John's voice rang heavily in his mind. He shouldn't have left John. He did. He left him. He had been without someone for so long and his reflexes had told him he was still alone. Always alone. But he wasn't. And he shouldn't have been. But now he will be. Again.

"Don't think like that, Sherlock. You're not getting rid of me that easy."

"John, please. _Please_ , John. I need you to open your eyes. You’re scaring me, John." Sherlock's hands released as another sob escaped him, before catching himself and pressing down harder. "John!"

"That's good Sherlock. You're doing really well. Just breathe." Sherlock kept his eyes focused intently on his unconscious doctor. His breath quivering and broken. John moved from behind him and knelt opposite Sherlock, by John's abdomen. "Sherlock, look at me." The detective couldn't focus. Too much. Too much information. There's an apprentice chef two buildings down being chastised for overcooking a steak. "Sherlock." He closed his eyes. _Not important!_ There's a fire approximately 3 miles to the south and the truck has taken a wrong turn, getting them there 4 minutes later than -

"Sherlock! Look at me!"

He snapped his focus to his doctor kneeling before him. Holding down all his weight on his blue scarf that was now soaked in blood, he met the eyes of the man he was losing.

"Sherlock. You are the best and the wisest man that I have ever known. If anyone can save me, It's you.” Sherlock's pulse began to settle to its regular rhythm. “It's always you, Sherlock. You’ve saved my life again and again since I first met you.” He brought a hand forward, as if to rest in on Sherlock's cheek but never quite making contact. “What's one more?" Sherlock swallowed. What was thick and hard in his throat had dissolved and the detective had emerged. His eyes honed onto the man in front of him. His doctor had done this before. Some case that went awry and a civilian was caught in the crossfire. John had saved their life.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He must have saved it in his mind palace. He must have. His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids as he backtracked months, pushing aside useless information that was brought to the surface. John's heavy breathing after a chase through London, his half smile as he peeked over the top of a newspaper to scold him, his eyes as they lit up upon watching Sherlock pull apart some mystery and leave all the details laid out for Gavin to catch the criminals. Not important. _Not important!_ But so very, very important. Just not now.

There it was. The security guard that had been shot trying to do his duty. John had reacted immediately. Perfectly calm and collected as Sherlock tried to assist where he could, following John's orders as he shouted them out. First thing they did was keep pressure on the bullet wound until it coagulated. Next. Sherlock groaned loudly and frustratingly.

"What was next?!"

John stayed, kneeling in front of him and studied the detective with those eyes. Eyes that were somewhat dull compared to the ones of the unconscious man in front of him. It didn't matter how many snapshots or recordings Sherlock had filed away in his mind palace, he could never imitate the depth and complexity of his doctors eyes. The way they shifted colour, he could have sworn, by will, which of course is ludicrous. No one has control over their eye colour. It's determined primarily by the concentration and distribution of melanin and a shift of pigmentation but the way John's eyes melted from one colour to another was incredibly fascinating and beautiful. So beautiful.

The security guard. He had internal bleeding. John had said... something. What did he do. His eyes shot open. Pulse. He pressed his fingers to his doctors wrist. Not erratic.. Not weak. He brought his hand back to his drenched scarf and lifted it hesitantly. The deep red had congealed and the bleeding seemed to have ceased. It had stopped. He looked to the wound and could see the metal among its bed of flesh and blood. Ok. It's not deep. No internal bleeding.

Sherlock choked out a premature sigh of relief. That was at least something. He needs urgent medical attention, clearly, but he won't die from internal bleeding.

Idiot. Sherlock. _Idiot!_ He fumbled at the pockets of his coat and pulled out his phone. They'd need an ambulance. He should have called sooner. Those minutes could be crucial. Average arrival time for a London ambulance is eight minutes, anything could happen in that time. He lit up his phone and the glare seemed harsh against the dark of the alleyway. Missed calls? Messages? The most recent message was half opened on the screen, waiting to be opened. Mycroft.

_Ambulance on its way. Keep him stable, brother._

Sherlock looked around, confused. How did-? Of course. He should never underestimate his older brother. They were maybe two blocks from home, naturally Mycroft would have sufficient surveillance in the surrounding alleyways in case an incident such as this was to occur and of course they were monitored endlessly. On its way. He checked the message again

_Received 11:23pm_

He checked the time on the corner of his phone.

_11:31pm_

Any minute. They'd be here any minute. Another breath escaped him as he shoved the phone back into its pocket. There wasn't anything else he could do except wait. He shuffled along the pavement clumsily and kneeled at John's head. He brought his hands under his doctors shoulders and lifted him so slightly to rest his head on his lap. He ran his fingers through his short blonde hair.

John stood from beside himself and smiled.

"Thank you, Sherlock. You were amazing." The noises of London slowly faded back into place. Distant chatter, vehicles and sirens. Sirens that would be here any moment for his doctor. His dear Watson. Sherlock never took his eyes from his unconscious John, petting him so delicately and whispered gently.

"It's ok, John. It'll be ok, I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> This text was inspired by  
> http://loudest-subtext-in-television.tumblr.com/post/120878511307/johnthreecontinents-have-you-thought-about-mind
> 
> And loosely inspired by  
> http://thetwelfthpanda.tumblr.com/post/121998994898/ahahahahaha-someone-take-my-tablet-away-from-me
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! If you like, come find me at http://toomanyships-sendhelp.tumblr.com/ for Johnlock and Destiel trash <3


End file.
